


Over the Aegean Sea

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Flying, Other, before the fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 23:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: A night over the Aegean Sea; flying, dancing, and memories.Crowley stands on the edge of a cliff over the Aegean Sea and opens his wings, blacker than the night sky, blotting out the stars.They were always black.  My wings.He turns, holds out a hand. Aziraphale feels nervous but can’t resist the mischief in that smile; never has, though he played otherwise.  He steps forward on bare feet, palm touching reaching fingertips.A lot of us had black wings, then.  You weren’t made yet, not for eons.





	Over the Aegean Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a ficlet on tumblr. :)

Crowley stands on the edge of a cliff over the Aegean Sea and opens his wings, blacker than the night sky, blotting out the stars.

_They were always black. My wings._

He turns, holds out a hand. Aziraphale feels nervous but can’t resist the mischief in that smile; never has, though he played otherwise. He steps forward on bare feet, palm touching reaching fingertips.

_A lot of us had black wings, then. You weren’t made yet, not for eons._

“Trust me?” the demon asks, and there’s six thousand years and hundreds of denials:_ I don’t know him, he’s not my friend, you go too fast for me,_ humming under the words. He isn’t certain.

“Of course, my dear,” the angel answers, and he means it. His choice is made, and he is nothing if not loyal and resolute. 

_It was the color of space, and the open, and everything She told us to fill it with light and life. There was no other color, in the Beginning._

Aziraphale has only a bark of a laugh as warning before Crowley grabs his other hand and twists, a pull of incredible power and then-

He throws the angel, white wings fluttering, into the warm night air.

_The Archangels made the materials but we made the stars, the nebulae, the shapes of planets. We mixed this material and that gas and made something new, and we found blue and purple and pink and yellow. And some angels changed their wings then, when we knew something other than the reach of Space._

_But I like it. Beautiful color, black. Every color, all at once, ready to be born._

Aziraphale lets out a yelp of surprise, but his wings are strong and Crowley read the currents.

His laugh is boyishly delighted as he dances upward on a burst of wind. 

He remembers, in the early days of Eden, leaping from the walls with the guardians of the other gates, a tumble of youth and energy and discovery. The older angels stayed away, avoiding the earth Principalities were made for, fearing the corruption of the Fallen.

_I made a color. I found it first. Mixed a bit of this, and a bit of that, and there it was. Something new. Something never seen before._

The sound of beating wings brings Crowley into view, his mouth open in a grin, his yellow eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He is long and warm and beautiful, hair dancing in the wind. Over his shoulders, billions of stars, the splash of a galaxy, the spark of planets. 

_Uriel is the one who put it in my hair._

_She loved my color. Red. She laughed and ran her fingers along the curls and then it wasn’t white-gold anymore, but burnished copper._

_She used to laugh, before the war. Have you ever heard it?_

Their fingers brush then break away, and they circle each other in the sky, lazy circles, the miracle of flying, the guidance of wings. 

Aziraphale never has heard Uriel laugh, but Crowley’s is wild and thrilled and he doesn’t believe any other sound in heaven or earth could ever compare.

His heart is full to bursting, and the stars are in Crowley’s eyes, a scattering across his skin.

_I miss it, Red. I miss all of them, I guess. The colors. Orange and pink and purple and green. _

_Snakes only see yellow, you know. Yellow, and a bit of blue._

_But I remember what it looked like, the new universe in all its glory. I remember every color, and every new name, the beautiful and the ugly. They couldn’t take that away from me, even in the Fall._

Crowley tucks his wings and dives, a bullet toward the twinkling waters. Aziraphale is so shocked by the move that he forgets to beat his wings, and plummets with none of the demon’s grace.

Crowley twists at the last moment, snaps out his wings, miracles his stop.

His scaled toes touch the surface of the water and send out gentle ripples. 

_I don’t remember my name, but I remember that._

Aziraphale concentrates, slows, and steps onto the delicate surface tension to stand beside him with only the faintest of wobbles. Little waves tease the tops of their toes. Aziraphale reaches out this time, and Crowley takes his hand. “Not bad, Angel,” he says, and there’s sharp humor and genuine praise all tangled in his voice.

_But I can always see you, Angel. Your hair, your eyes._

Aziraphale knows. He always knew, and he’s lived in creams and blues and hints of yellow, and he’s left his hair golden white and his wings like pearls: a blank slate of an Angel for a Demon to see.

They glide together, hand on sharp shoulder, at soft waist, a waltz across the sea. Small waves kick up cool spatters of water and salt and Aziraphale giggles like a new angel, soaring above a great garden. Crowley’s eyes are ancient and wise and playful and astonished.

The reflected stars dance around their feet. The tips of their wings brush as Crowley twirls him away and claims him back. 

The angel takes the lead. The demon steals a kiss: what an utterly human bit of thievery. The angel looks under pale lashes and invites another.

_I can always see you._


End file.
